


There Are Flowers in My Chest Again

by aestheticly_cat



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Between Main Pairing, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Rape Recovery, no non-con between Nicky/Joe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestheticly_cat/pseuds/aestheticly_cat
Summary: And so, it’s in the New York City subway, a rather unlikely place when one thinks about it, that it all begins.It almost ends on Nicky’s couch.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 43
Kudos: 162





	1. What Do You Do With Tenderness When All You Expect is Fury

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This fic deals with Joe’s previous rape and may contain triggers that I want prospective readers to be aware of. While this first chapter doesn’t include anything that I personally would consider extremely graphic, Joe does speak of what happened in blunt, frank terms, and even has a moment where he flashes back for a moment to the assault. Joe’s feelings towards himself tend to come off as self-deprecating at times. There are also moments of victim-blaming where Joe blames himself for the assault.  
> Future chapters may contain things of a more graphic nature, and if the possibility of that upsets you, please reach out to me. If you’d still really like to read this fic, I will do my best to edit a version for you to read personally.  
> I have no idea how many chapters this will have, but I’m banking on no more than 5 at the moment.  
> This is more of a therapeutic release to me than anything else, and despite how proud I already am of it, I strongly encourage every one of you to check in with yourselves before you read this. 
> 
> Thank you for being here, either way.

Joe sees Nicky for the very first time on an overcast Wednesday morning as he’s waiting for his Brooklyn-bound train.

The other man is shivering inside of an expensive looking navy pea coat, and Joe’s eyes linger on the soft red flush that stretches across the bridge of his proud nose as he buries it in the collar of his coat. 

It’s the kind of nose that belongs on an ancient sculpture inside the Louvre, somewhere it can be admired properly.

Joe’s hands and fingers flex with the urge to reach into his bag for his sketchbook. 

For his part, the unfairly attractive stranger doesn’t seem to notice Joe at all as he fights off the bitter New York cold. Joe, for his part, is trying and failing to stop staring like an absolute idiot. He can almost hear Booker’s throaty laugh at his ridiculousness, and takes a second to thank Allah that the Frenchman isn’t present. 

He’s more than a little disappointed when his train pulls into the station and the crowd shuffles him onto it before he can do more than steal one more glance back at the man. 

Joe, in his fluster, completely misses the two blue eyes that follow him as the train doors slide shut.

Joe meets Nicky, properly, for the very first time two Wednesday’s later. 

He’s practically in the same position as before, wearing the same coat, the same wind-chapped color on his cheeks, but this time he’s staring right back at Joe. His thin mouth is quirked up to one side, and he raises one full eyebrow up. 

“ _Looking for me_?” He seems to say, his eyes sparkling bright enough for Joe to admire even from across the chasm of morning commuters.

From this angle, Joe can see a beauty mark on the right side of his handsome face, and he feels heat curl low in his belly at the sight. For a moment, fear and uncertainty threaten to send him stumbling out of the station, and back up the stairs. 

But, just then, as if seeing something on Joe’s face, the other man’s confident smirk melts away and is instead replaced by a sheepish, apologetic smile. A vivid blush spreads across his angular face, rivaling the flush from the cold in a way so endearing that Joe is helpless against his answering smile. 

They meet each other in the middle, leaving a few scant feet between them. 

“Hi,” Joe blurts, too loud, immediately wincing at his own awkwardness. 

The other man, who is even more attractive up close because _of course he is_ , just laughs. 

“Hello, yourself,” he replies. His voice, heavily accented with what Joe thinks is probably Italian, is soft and warm. Joe’s nerves settle a bit at the sound. 

“I’m Joe– well, Yusuf, but my friends call me Joe.” He stumbles a bit, this man having him off-balance in ways he is wholly unfamiliar with. 

The stranger across from him, who hopefully won’t be a stranger for much longer, just smiles, sweet and a little shy. “I’m Nicolò, but you can call me Nicky. It’s very nice to meet you, Joe.” 

“You, too! I wasn’t sure if I would see you again–,” Joe breaks off, grinding his teeth together in embarrassment. So, so _stupid_. 

Nicky tilts his head to the side in confusion, reminding Joe of an adorable puppy. “Again? Have we met before?”

Joe prays for the ground to open up and swallow him. 

“No, we haven’t– I mean, I saw you a few weeks ago here, but we didn’t speak-,” Joe sighs, and closes his eyes when he sees the way Nicky is fighting back his amusement. “I’m not making this any better am I?” 

Nicky chuckles and Joe cracks one eye open, as if checking to see if the coast is clear. 

“I should probably confess that I was watching you, as well,” Nicky says, a guilty grin on his lips. 

Joe’s mind whites out, and he’s sure he’s wearing an equally blank expression, at the admission. 

_Nicky was watching him, too?_

“You were?” Joe finally croaks out, incredulous.

It’s Nicky’s turn to be embarrassed as he flushes and looks at the ground between them. “I came back last Wednesday to look for you, but you weren’t here.” 

_Do wonders ever cease_? Joe feels a giddiness he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager bubble up in his chest at this absolutely unbelievable man in front of him. 

“So, you were stalking me is what you’re saying?” 

Nicky’s head snaps up, mouth open in horror, when he sees the goofy, utterly absurd grin on Joe’s face. He snaps his jaw shut, pressing his lips together in a frown of disapproval that fails to land with the way his eyes shine. 

“Are you mocking me?” He makes a show of crossing his arms, tilting his chin in the air, the picture of arrogance. 

Joe wants this man like he’s never wanted anything else. 

“No,” he replies, softer, all joking aside. “I’m admiring you.”

Nicky’s arms unfold, and he tucks his chin back to his chest but not before Joe catches the wide, awed grin forming on his face. 

Joe’s inner thoughts have basically been reduced to a mantra of _cute, cute, cute_ , at this point, so he can’t be held responsible when the next thing that comes out of his mouth is-

“Do you want to go on a date with me sometime?” 

He internally facepalms, because this is not how he wanted to ask Nicky on a date, but Nicky is looking up at him again with that sweet, little smile as he nods quickly. 

“Yes, I would like that very much, Joe,” Nicky says, peering up at Joe from under his unfairly long eyelashes, and Joe stifles a groan at the picture he makes. 

The sound of Joe's train sliding into the station has them both hurriedly taking their phones out and exchanging numbers as the crowd around them pulses with impatience. 

His train is boarding, and Joe knows he only has a few moments left before he’ll risk missing it, thus missing work, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching out to take Nicky’s cold hand in his warmer one, holding him tight.

“I’ll call you,” he says, unable to find the words he really wants to say. 

Nicky just gives him one more adoring look, and squeezes his hand back just as firmly. “I can’t wait.” 

And so, it’s in the New York City subway, a rather unlikely place when one thinks about it, that it all begins. 

—————————

It almost ends on Nicky’s couch.

Joe offers to walk Nicky up to his apartment after their fourth date, and the way he blushes, bites his lip between his teeth, should have been his first clue.

Nicky leaning forward to tell the taxi driver _not to wait for them_ should have been the second. 

There’s a crackling energy between the two men as they take the lift up to Nicky’s floor, both of them stealing glances at the other; one heated, and the other confused. 

Joe looks back on this and wonders if he was being willfully ignorant, or just regular ignorant. 

He’s shuffling his feet outside of Nicky’s apartment door when the shorter man reaches forward to frame Joe’s face in his hands and kiss him. It’s deep and wet in a way none of their few previous goodnight kisses have been, and it has Joe stumbling forward, bracing his hands on the door on either side of Nicky’s head. 

Nicky makes an urgent noise into Joe’s mouth, and Joe distantly hears the jingling of keys as he struggles to unlock the door without separating. The door lock clicks, and then they’re both tumbling into the apartment, trying to stay upright as they kiss and kiss and kiss. 

And it’s good, it’s _so_ good. Joe’s whole body feels like a live-wire as Nicky swipes his tongue across his own. His thought process has whittled down to nothing but Nicky’s mouth and his hands, that are now on Joe’s arms gently pushing him further into the apartment. 

He feels the back of his knees brush up against something solid a second before he’s being pressed down onto it. Nicky climbs on top of him, their bodies pressed together in a hot line, and ducks back down to retake Joe’s mouth. 

They’re well on their way to having a junior high make out on Nicky’s couch when Joe feels Nicky’s hands slide down and grip his hips where his shirt has ridden up. The palms of his hands are searing, and the heat jars Joe into alertness, fighting through his own lust. Nicky presses kisses to the side of Joe’s face, across the sharp line of his jaw, down to his throat where he sucks the softer skin between his teeth. 

The slight pain of that, combined with the smooth roll of Nicky’s hips into Joe’s that presses their erections together, has him freezing in fear. 

Suddenly, Nicky’s hands aren’t his; they’re broader, rougher, as they shove Joe down onto the cold concrete. The teeth nipping at his throat are suddenly violent, tearing at his skin, drawing blood, and the sweet lilt of Nicky’s accent as he murmurs Joe’s name becomes an aggressive, but familiar British voice telling him to “ _keep still, bitch, or I will blow your brains out._ ” 

Joe squeezes his eyes tight, clenching his fists until his fingernails dig into his flesh, trying like hell to keep himself in the present. There’s a sound, in the background, but the rush of blood in his ears overpowers it as he spirals.

Joe wants this, wants _Nicky_ , but there’s a part of his brain, wounded and frightened, that’s screaming so loudly he can barely hear what Nicky is saying. Nicky, who is suddenly not on top of him anymore, who isn’t touching him at all anymore.

Joe rolls off of the couch, hits the hardwood floor, forcing the air that’s left in his lungs out, and gets his feet under himself to stand. 

Nicky is on his feet with him and he steels himself against a physical recoiling at the sudden move. Nicky’s brows furrow as if he saw the aborted movement anyway and Joe fights the urge to turn tail and run. 

_He’d probably beat Nicky to the door._

Joe immediately berates himself for such an awful, awful thought. Nicky would never force him to stay if he wants to leave; he would certainly never force him to do anything else, either. Joe’s mind knows this, but his body doesn’t. 

Joe stands stone-still, breathing hard against panic and shame, staring back at Nicky— who’s extended one hand, palm up towards him. An offer, a question, but never a demand. His blue eyes are watery and, combined with the quiver of his bottom lip, he is the human embodiment of concern and contrition. 

Joe feels like such a piece of shit for burdening Nicky with his stupidity, with this trauma that won’t go away no matter what he does.

“I think I should leave now,” he whispers, his voice cracking in odd places, as his eyes dart around the room.

“If you want to go, I understand,” Nicky starts quietly, “but I think we were both enjoying the kissing. We can just do that. Or we can just sit together and watch a movie. Whatever you want, Joe.” 

Joe wants to believe him. He wants to believe that this perfect, beautiful, patient man would be content with kissing for however long it takes for Joe to be ready for more. 

But how can he? 

“Yeah?” Joe crushes down blooming tendrils of hope with anger. “For how long? How long until you grow bored with me? How long until you want a real relationship?” 

“Joe,” Nicky’s voice is still gentle, but there’s a definite firm edge to it now. “I refuse to believe that a man as progressive as yourself truly thinks that sex is what makes a relationship meaningful.” 

Joe looks down, chastised, because of course he knows what Nicky’s saying is true. It just doesn’t feel true when he applies it to himself. 

“Joe,” Nicky’s voice is hushed. “ _Sweetheart_ , look at me, please.” 

It’s the endearment that drags Joe’s head back up. 

Nicky’s hand is still hovering in the air, but Joe can see the muscles in his bicep trembling at the strain. He knows Nicky would hold his arm up all night, take the soreness the next day with a smile, if it means Joe feels less alone. 

But Joe doesn’t want Nicky to be in pain, not for a moment, so he takes two shaky steps forward until he can tangle his fingers with Nicky’s. 

They both let out a breath of relief at the touch, and Joe finds himself swaying on his feet toward Nicky as his panic leaves him and exhaustion creeps in. 

Nicky’s hand is loose around his, like a child cupping a butterfly, terrified of crushing its wings. “Do you want to sit down with me, tesoro? You’re shaking, and I don’t want you to fall.” 

Joe makes a sound, strangled and miserable, in the back of his throat that Nicky must take as an affirmative because he finds himself quickly pressed down into the couch cushions. Alone this time, as Nicky sits down far enough that Joe won’t feel crowded, but close enough to keep their hands entwined.

They sit in silence, Nicky a warm presence at his side, as Joe breathes through a hurt that lingers and aches in places he can’t always see until they’re ripped open like they have been tonight. He opens and shuts his mouth a half a dozen times, trying and failing to find the words that will explain what went wrong tonight, but it’s only after the sixth time he tries that he realizes he’s never said it out loud before. 

He hasn’t told anyone about that night outside of what used to be his favorite bar almost two years ago. Not Booker who, despite his brusque nature, Joe knows would listen without judgment. Not Andy or Quynh who he knows would do anything for him. Not his sister or his mother who call him every other week. No one. 

Joe hunches over a bit, laughing quietly, shaking his head at himself, at the situation, at life. 

Nicky’s hand constricts for a brief moment, barely enough pressure to register. “What’s so funny, caro?” 

Joe shakes his head harder, his laugh turning bitter. 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Joe says, reaching his free hand up to roughly scrub his face free of the tears that had fallen. 

He sighs then, forcing himself to look at Nicky who he doesn’t think has taken his eyes off of him since he’d gone still on the couch. 

“I’m so sorry, Nicky. I don’t-,” Joe shudders with guilt, trying to find words to explain his ineptitude. “I’m sorry for tonight. It had nothing to do with you,” he finally settles on, keeping his jaw tight against another outburst of emotion. 

Nicky—understanding, sweet, Nicky just nods. His thumb is moving in gentle strokes across the back of Joe’s hand, and he allows the motion to soothe him. 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Joe. Not about this. Never about this,” Nicky reassures him, his face a lesson in patience, and something about the sheen across his blue eyes make Joe think he already knows, or at least suspects, what’s wrong. 

That thought has Joe tugging his hand away, humiliation curdling the brief contentment he was feeling. 

Nicky let’s him go, no resistance in his grip, as Joe leans forward, elbows on his knees, and let’s his head sink into his hands. 

Nicky doesn’t move any closer, but he leaves the hand Joe has just let go of on the stretch of empty cushion between them. Just in case. 

Joe’s speaking before he even makes up his mind to open his mouth. 

“It was two years ago, outside of the 169 Bar in Brooklyn,” Joe’s voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. He senses more than sees Nicky straighten up next to him. “I used to go there all the time, alone or with friends, it didn’t matter. I just liked being there.”

“One night, I went there with a man I had met through work. I told you I used to work in private security, yes?” Joe doesn’t look over at Nicky when he asks the question, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep talking if he sees pity on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nicky dip his head in a slight nod and continues. 

“His name was Keane,” Joe falters a moment at saying the name aloud, but presses forward. “He hired me to work on a security team that’s main job was keeping his brother safe from his fans. It was a good job, at first. I liked the monotony of it, how easy it was. After leaving the military, it was nice to work somewhere that there wasn’t a constant stream of bullets and bloodshed.”

“Well, no bullets at least,” Joe concedes, and Nicky makes a bitten off sound as if _he’s_ been wounded. Joe turns to look at him, his concern overpowering his own emotional turmoil for a moment as he seeks out Nicky’s eyes that are cast down at the couch. Joe can see Nicky’s jaw is clenched as tight as the rest of his body, as he digs the hand that’s not still stretched out towards Joe into his jean-clad thigh. 

“Nicky,” Joe murmurs, reaching out to retake the hand being offered to him, watching as it curls around his own almost desperately this time. “I don’t want to upset you. I just want to try and explain, because you deserve to know what’s wrong with me—,” Joe’s cut off by Nicky’s hoarse voice. 

“Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” he pleads, tear-filled eyes looking back at Joe once more. “There is nothing wrong with you, Yusuf al-Kaysani. Nothing. I won’t hear otherwise.” 

The darkest, most degraded part of Joe rears its head at Nicky’s words, wanting nothing more than to shout from the rooftops how _wrong_ he is. How _disgusting_ and _used up_ and _disappointing_ Joe is. The fire in Nicky’s fierce gaze shoves that part down, keeps it from sinking its claws into Joe, and banishes it back to where it came from. 

“Okay, Nicky,” Joe agrees. “I won’t say it.” 

Nicky’s smile is a weak thing, but he squares his shoulders and squeezes Joe’s hand. “Please, continue if you want to, Joe. I’m listening.”

Joe takes a deep breath, and starts again, focusing on the feeling of Nicky’s palm pressed against his to keep himself safely in the present. 

“Keane asked if I wanted to go for drinks one night after we clocked out for the day, and I agreed. He was charming, funny, even attentive. I thought he was...I thought he was something he wasn’t,” Joe says, his voice growing quieter as he draws closer to his greatest secret, his biggest shame. “We– _I_ , had too many drinks, so we left the bar together. He said he would take me home. He didn’t. He took me into the alley behind the bar, put a gun to my head, and then he raped me.” 

Nicky sucks in a sharp, wet breath, his hand flexing sporadically around Joe’s when his words land like a punch. 

Joe just stares at the carpet, trying to distance himself from what he’s saying.

“He told me that if I fought, or screamed, he would kill me, and that he would get away with it because of who his brother was. I believed him,” Joe’s voice is strangled with the tears, the grief, clogging his throat. “He left me there when he was done, and had HR send me termination papers the next morning. They cited ‘irreconcilable differences and inappropriate behavior’ as their reasons for it.”

Done, Joe let’s his tears fall freely, using his free hand to cover his mouth, trying to stifle his sobs, his shame. Nicky moves to his left, hand never leaving his as he slides just a bit closer. “Joe, can I _please_ hold you? Would that be okay?”

Joe laughs, or sobs he isn’t sure, at the question, turning to look at Nicky whose face is wet with evidence of his own suffering. 

“You still want to?” Joe asks, derisively. 

Nicky takes that as a yes, and Joe finds himself being pulled and maneuvered until he’s all but curled up on Nicky’s lap. A hand comes up and cradles the back of his head, gently pressing his face into the curve of Nicky’s neck. He goes willingly, already waiting for the sword to fall, for the inevitable end that _must_ come from telling your potential lover about your sexual trauma. 

Nicky’s other hand runs up and down Joe’s back, careful not to go too low, as Joe shakes against him, purging himself of the horror of his past. Nicky holds him steady through it all, a life boat thrown out into an ocean, a lighthouse in the dark, every prayer Joe has spoken in the last two years answered.

Nicky presses soft, fleeting kisses to Joe’s forehead, his temple, wherever he can reach. Whispers terms of endearment, of adoration, of _admiration_ that Joe feels unworthy of, but is grateful for nonetheless against his skin.

“Joe, are you listening to me, my love?” 

It’s the _my love_ that has Joe paying attention. Nicky’s never called him that before. Not once. 

He tilts his head from its place on Nicky’s now tear-stained shoulder until he can look up at the man in question. Nicky moves his hand up until it’s cupping Joe’s face, _soft, soft, soft._

“I need you to hear me when I say this, and I need you to try your very best to believe it. Alright?” Nicky is still fighting through his own tears, but his voice is determined in a way Joe doesn’t think he’s heard before. He nods his assent, leaning into the touch against his face. 

“Nothing you could ever tell me would change the way I feel for you, Joe,” Nicky‘s face breaks into a smile then that is so at odds with the night’s events. “When I saw you in the subway that day, it felt like I had known you forever. I came back the next Wednesday and I stayed for hours waiting for you, hoping for you. I was so afraid I had missed my chance with you,” Nicky’s voice is rife with affection, his blue eyes pinning Joe like a laser as he says things Joe has only ever dreamed of hearing. 

“This last month with you has been a small eternity of perfection, tesoro. You are the joy in my life, and I am grateful beyond words, beyond measure and reason, that I have been gifted this chance to be with you,” Nicky’s crying openly again, and Joe doesn’t feel far behind him as he curls one of his arms around Nicky’s back

“I love you more than I ever imagined I could love someone, Joe,” Nicky confesses, and Joe keens and tries to hide his face in Nicky’s throat again, but the hand on his face stops him from doing so. “Do you hear me, sweetheart? I love you, and I will be here for as long as you will have me.” 

Joe nods frantically, trying to find his own words to say it back, because _of course_ he loves Nicky. Of course he does. How could he not? Since the moment they first spoke, since they first laid eyes on each other, he’s been falling head over heels for this man. This perfect man that knows his secret and still wants him, still loves him. 

Nicky doesn’t rush him, doesn’t ask to hear his declaration returned in short order; he just holds Joe closer, if that is even possible at this point, and waits. 

Eventually, minutes or hours later, Joe sits up letting Nicky brush damp, unruly curls from his face as they stare at one another in the dim living room light. 

Joe leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together, and their mouths brush when he finally says what’s been in his heart from the very beginning, but that Nicky put into better words. 

_“Beyond measure and reason, Nicky. I love you, too.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Sweet, Sweet Heart of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sunrise and sunset of the day after Joe’s confession. Featuring more of Nicky being the perfect partner, and some concerned texts from the rest of the squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions, and details aspects of Joe’s assault. Please be careful with yourselves if you choose to read this. 
> 
> This chapter didn’t come as easily as the last one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.

Joe wakes up, in sedate, hazy phases, to the smell of something sweet, and gentle humming he knows as the sound of a happy Nicky coming from the kitchen. 

He blinks sleep-filled, bleary eyes around the unfamiliar bedroom, taking in the reading glasses on the nightstand and the books written in Italian on the tiny bookshelf in the corner; a crucifix, and the body of Christ hanging from it, is propped up against the shelves. 

He’s in Nicky’s apartment. 

He’s disoriented for a moment, and then the previous night’s events come washing over him like a black tidal wave. Joe pulls the comforter tighter around himself, pushing his face into the pillow in an attempt to stave off the pain his recollection brings. He’s spent the last two years actively running from his past, and it feels like both a relief and a fresh wound to finally stop and turn to face it. 

Is that what he’s going to do, though? _Face_ _it_? 

Last night was the first time he’d uttered the word rape, and even in his mind he could barely stand to think it. Beyond that, how is supposed to move _past it_? Joe knows that, no matter how much he loves Nicky, he can’t be “fixed” by another person. It’s not possible. He’s going to have to do it for himself. 

But _how_?

“Buongiorno, amore mio,” Nicky says as if summoned by Joe’s less than pleasant thoughts, his voice pitched low to not startle Joe, as he leans against the bedroom door frame. 

Joe is suddenly, beautifully, reminded of the fact that this man loves him. 

Nicky’s hair is sticking out in all directions, with sleep lines still fading from his face, his lips turned up at the corners just so, and Joe is so in love with him his chest constricts. 

“Morning, habibi,” Joe returns as he sits up, feeling out of place and oddly shy in the light of day; in this tentative aftermath. 

He remembers Nicky quietly asking if he wanted to stay last night when Joe had started nodding off on his shoulder, how he had offered to stay on the couch even though they both knew he’d wake up aching. 

Joe is learning that every action and word of Nicky’s are an exercise in selflessness. 

He remembers the two of them standing beside the bed, both afraid in their own way, until Nicky had yawned, large enough for his jaw to crack and his nose to crinkle, and Joe had laughed; his fear defenseless in the face of a heavy-eyed Nicky. 

He remembers curling around Nicky in the dark, their bodies curved like quotations, and falling asleep with his nose buried in the nape of Nicky’s nape. Nicky’s careful hand wrapped around the forearm he’d placed on his waist like an anchorpoint. 

Joe remembers falling asleep knowing he was safe, and waking up the same. 

“How did you sleep?” Nicky hasn’t moved any closer, seeming content to stand in the doorway, as long as he gets to look at Joe.

Joe wishes he were next to him, but, with hesitation and left over shame churning in his stomach, doesn’t know how to ask. 

“Good,” Joe admits quietly, then clears his throat, toying with a fraying thread on the comforter to avoid looking at Nicky directly. “Better than I have in a long time, actually.”

Nicky makes a low sound of acknowledgement, the noise rubbing something in Joe’s brain just the right way, but he doesn’t comment on the statement. They both know when Joe stopped sleeping through the night. 

The silence stretches on, just this side of uncomfortable, and Joe’s skin itches at the urge to gather himself, to get out before it becomes unbearable. He’s readying himself to throw off his cotton shield to find his shoes, to make some excuse that will spare both of them, when Nicky speaks again. 

“Joe, I would like to kiss you.” 

Nicky is still holding his place at the door, but Joe is suddenly aware of the longing in Nicky’s gaze. 

_How had he missed that?_

“Would that be alright with you, my love?” 

Joe wonders idly if there ever lived a man as kind, as patient, as his Nicolò. He’s willing to bet there has not. 

“ _Please_ ,” Joe whispers, his entire body already leaning towards Nicky as the man crosses the small bedroom in four sweeping strides. 

Nicky bends at the waist, hands coming up to sink into dark curls, to cradle the back of Joe’s head as he brings their mouths together in what might be their softest kiss yet. 

Joe sighs into the touch, and Nicky uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss a fraction; still so very careful with him. 

The discomfited, strained feeling that’s been pressing tight against his skin since he woke up dissipates with each wet press of Nicky’s lips against his own. Emboldened, love-drunk, Joe reaches up, clumsy hands sliding up the warm, smooth skin of Nicky’s back, underneath his shirt. 

Nicky grunts into their kiss, a surprised sound, body jerking forward towards Joe. 

Nicky pulls back, breathing a bit harder into the minuscule space between their mouths.

“As much as I adore your hands on me, they are very cold, tesoro,” Nicky teases, smiling as Joe spreads his fingers wider in an effort to cover more ground in retaliation. 

“This is your apartment, Nico. The fact that it’s currently cold enough for a penguin to live here happily is entirely your fault.” 

Nicky tugs, just barely, on a handful of Joe’s curls at the cheek. 

“It’s 74 degrees in here, Joe.”

“As I said— penguin temperatures.” 

“Have you ever actually been to a penguin exhibit, or seen one in the wild, beloved?” 

“...no,” Joe huffs, indignantly. Nicky grins in perceived victory, and Joe simply can’t have that. “But I’m sure it’s not much different than this apartment. Look, I have goosebumps.” 

The raised skin on his arms is from the heady feeling of terror and delight that Nicky’s flesh underneath his fingertips brings, but Nicky doesn’t need to know that. 

Nicky, humming in that way of his, wordlessly presses his mouth into Joe’s truly spectacular bed-head.

Joe can feel his smile, and he leans forward, wrapping his arms tighter around Nicky, so he can press his face into his chest. 

They stay like that, Nicky curled down over him like a gargoyle statue guarding a crumbling cathedral, for a stretch of time so _perfect_ and _quiet_ and _theirs_ that Joe is almost asleep again when Nicky moves again. 

“Come back,” he whines, pitifully, making childish grabby hands at Nicky as he moves towards the door. “Where are you going?” 

Nicky turns just enough to throw a sugarsweet smile back at Joe. 

“I’m going to turn the heat up, my love. I’ll be right back.” 

Joe almost tells him to forget the stupid heat, that his love is more than enough to keep him warm, but he blinks once, twice, and the third time his eyes stay shut.

When Nicky does return, having turned the heat up and put away the blueberry muffins he had baked for Joe that morning, he finds Joe asleep once more— one of his hands stretched out towards Nicky’s side of the bed. 

The sun will rise higher in the sky, and the city will scream to life all around them, and Nicky will not sleep, choosing to instead keep watch over Joe. 

Joe will dream of a place where everything is beautiful all the time, and nothing hurts.

———————-

When Joe wakes for the second time, it’s to Nicky gently shaking his shoulder and holding his phone out to him. 

“I’m sorry to wake you, my love, but someone is trying very hard to reach you,” Nicky murmurs, apologetic from his seat next to Joe on the bed. 

Joe just grumbles, poking at his phone and scrubbing sleep from his eyes as his phone screen details his missed notifications. 

_6 missed calls from “Boss”_

_4 texts from “Second, More Scary Boss”_

_1 voicemail from “Boss”_

“Motherfuck,” Joe swears, immediately pressing play on his voicemail from Andy. He winces, and scrambles for the volume as her voice comes blaring out of the speaker. 

“ _Yusuf al-Kaysani, if you are not dead somewhere I am going to kill you myself when I get a hold of you. It’s fight night and you are nowhere to be found_.” Joe looks out the bedroom window and, yeah sure enough, the sky has turned to dusk. He’s slept almost the entire day. Voicemail Andy, uncaring of his epiphany, continues. 

“ _No, no, Quynh. We all agreed not to skip on fight night. He doesn’t get a pass just because he brings you those disgusting peppermint mochas to work_ .” Despite how much he regrets worrying her, Joe can’t help but smile, overflowing with fondness, as he listens to her bicker with her wife. “ _Call me back, asshole._ ” 

With Andy finished berating him, Joe swipes out of his voicemail, and into his text messages to check what Quynh has sent him. 

Q _: You are supposed to be here to keep me from suffering the wrath of a drunk Booker and Andy._

Q _: We are not friends anymore, Joe._

Q _: I was joking before, of course we are still friends._

Q _: Andy is leaving you a mean voicemail, don’t listen to her. It’s okay if you don’t want to come tonight. Just call us back so we know you’re okay._

Joe blinks back the tears that well up in his eyes from Quynh’s messages, and from the concern he could hear under the thin veil of Andy’s indignation. Joe has no doubt that Booker is just as worried, probably hovering over Quynh’s shoulder while she types.

How could he have ever thought his friends wouldn’t have been there for him after Keane? 

“Tesoro?” Nicky has turned towards him in the bed. Joe glances over and is momentarily stunned by the adorable sight that is Nicky wearing his reading glasses. “Is everything alright?”

Joe’s known since their second date that Nicky needed reading glasses due to his nearsightedness, but this is the first time he’s seen the other man wear them. He’s taken aback by how young they make Nicky look, his blue eyes wide behind the lens as he looks back at Joe.

“Yes, everything is okay. I forgot about a standing date with my friends, and they’re wondering where I am. Just give me a second to let them know I’m alright,” Joe says, shaking his head to clear it, and turning back to his phone. 

Nicky seems unconvinced about how worried he should be, but tilts his head and goes back to reading the book that’s open in his lap— _Orlando Furioso,_ the title on the spine displays. 

Joe’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of how to tell Quynh about what’s happened. His stomach twists at the thought of telling her about his assault. Telling Nicky was the hardest thing he’s ever done in his entire life, and he doesn’t feel remotely ready to do it all over again with his friends. Not yet, anyway. 

In the end, he settles on a vague truth. 

J: _I’m so sorry to have worried you, dear heart. Nicky and I had a very important conversation last night and I’m afraid it took more out of me than I expected. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early._

_Also, tell your wife not to murder me, please. I am at your mercy._

Quynh must have been holding her phone in her hand, because her reply pings in only seconds later. 

Q: _Are you hurt?_

Joe’s chest constricts, and he reaches up one hand to massage his palm into his sternum. Beside him, Nicky pauses in the middle of turning a page. 

_Is he hurt?_

Joe thinks about how Keane had torn at him, vicious and unrelenting, with the cold barrel of his gun pressed into the back of his skull. The cruel, degrading words he had snarled into Joe’s ear as he took him; words Joe still hears when he closes his eyes sometimes.

He thinks about the concrete scraping against his front as his body was rocked from behind; the wounds gouged into him had bled for almost two full days before truly beginning to scab over. 

But, as with all wounds of blood and bruise, one day he had woken up and they were gone. 

The fingerprint bruises from his hips, his shoulders, and his arms had turned every shade of the rainbow, but eventually they too had faded into nothing. 

_Is he hurt?_

Joe thinks about last night and how the touch of the man he loves more than anything was too much to bear. He thinks about how, even now, he is aware of every breath Nicky takes next to him, and he wishes it was simply because he loves him and not because there is a part of him that’s still afraid. 

Joe thinks about how terrified he is that he’ll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, checking for Keane’s face in every crowd, flinching from every unexpected touch; a lifetime of half measures. 

“ _Physically, I am okay_ ,” he types, and it’s true. “ _Otherwise...I’m getting through it. Nicky is with me. It’s not because of him._ ” 

Despite never having met Nicky, all of Joe’s friends have been the recipient of one of his long-winded, adoring speeches about his perfect, Italian man. The last thing he wants is for any of them to think ill of Nicky before having set eyes on him. 

The man in question has laid aside his book, all pretense gone as he studies the side of Joe’s face. Joe knows Nicky wants to speak, to reach out and see what he can do to help him. 

But, if he does that, Joe might fall apart again, and he needs to make sure Quynh believes him. So, he keeps his own eyes firmly on his phone, watching the thought bubble at the bottom of the screen as Quynh types. 

Q: _Andy says to take tomorrow off, but only if you promise to call her in the morning._

Joe wants to protest at that, but the wiser part of him takes the day off for what it is— a reprieve, 24 more hours he can spend healing in Nicky’s capable hands.

J: _I promise. Tell her thank you for me, please._

Joe’s phone lies silent for a few more moments, and he’s about to set it down on the bedside table when it lights up once more.

Q: _I don’t know what you’re going through, Yusuf, and as much as I want to, that’s not important right now. What’s important is that you know that I’m on your side, always, and that I will stand by you, always. What’s important is that you know I love you. We all do. We’ll be here whenever you need us._

Joe’s tears from before come back with a vengeance, and win the battle, falling irrepressibly down his face. 

Nicky, who’s been still and silent since Joe had pressed a hand to his own chest, makes a sound next to him, hurt and a little scared as he shifts closer.

“ _My love_ ,” Nicky whispers, hands hovering. “What can I do?” 

Before Joe can do more than reach out, blindly, for one of Nicky’s hands, one last text fills his inbox. 

Q: _P.S. Andy and Booker say “retweet,” but I don’t know what that means._

A startled, garbled laugh is pulled from his mouth at Quynh’s parting words. Of course Andy and Booker would say something like that. They’d taken great joy in adopting the slang of the younger generations and using their combined knowledge to confound Quynh on a daily basis. Quynh who, according to Booker, has “get off my lawn energy,” always turns to Joe for an explanation. This bit of normal, tossed in with all of the turmoil, almost makes him feel like everything will turn out alright. 

_Oh_ , how he loves them. 

He finally puts his phone on the table, and turns towards Nicky who’s still waiting for some explanation, his hand wrapped firm around the one Joe had offered. 

Joe opens his mouth, fully intending to say words that make sense, to put Nicky’s mind at ease, but all that comes out is a sob.

He squeezes his eyes shut as harsh, wracking cries shake his body. 

“Oh, Joe,” Nicky murmurs, sliding closer to him. “Sweetheart, please. What can I do?” 

Joe wishes he had an answer for him, but all he can think about is the rubbed raw, smarting feeling spreading out from his chest. 

“It hurts,” he gasps out, taking his free hand and putting it over his heart. “It hurts so much.” 

Nicky makes another mournful noise, and Joe is once again reminded of just how much this man loves him; Nicky loves him enough to take his pain and make it his own. 

Joe isn’t sure what to do with that just yet, and maybe he never will, but there is one thing he wants more than anything else in this moment. 

He turns to look at Nicky, blinking the moisture from his eyes, and sees Nicky doing much of the same. Joe’s chest is hitching with the tiny, hiccuping breaths that come from crying so hard your brain loses oxygen but he manages to get the words out anyway.

“Can you just hold me for a minute?” 

Nicky’s arms are open before he finishes the sentence, and Joe falls into them, pressing his face tight against Nicky’s sternum. 

Nicky’s broad hands spread across his back as his arms wrap firmly around him, and some might call them a cage, but to Joe they just feel like home. 

“I’ll hold you as long as you like, my love,” Nicky says, and it sounds like a vow, like a promise. “If I could hold you forever, I would count myself among the luckiest of men.”

Joe cries a little more at this, but there’s a sweeter edge to it now. A relief that only comes after a wound has been cleaned, some of the infection scraped away. 

At some point, they will untangle themselves, and they will survey the broken pieces of Joe left scattered around the bedroom; Nicky will reach out, pick up one of those pieces, and put it back where it belongs. 

But for now, they lay there in silence, Nicky curled around him—between Joe and the door, between Joe and the past—until the last, waning rays of the sun disappear from the sky and for once, Joe finds that he isn’t afraid of the dark. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Make Me Insane and Boil My Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My love,” Nicky calls softly, hesitation clear in his voice. “Talk to me.” 
> 
> Joe shakes his head quickly. His fingers are turning white from how tightly they’re gripping the sink. 
> 
> “You don’t want me to do that right now, Nicky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this and make it a part of a longer chapter, but things were getting away from me. This is a direct continuation of the previous chapter. 
> 
> TW: Victim-blaming, mentions of rape.

The first few months that had followed his assault had been spent in a haze of pain and terror so acute that Joe could scarcely get out of bed. 

He’d always been shrewd when it came to his finances and without the need to get out and search for a new job right away, and the apparent existence of grocery delivery apps, he had found little reason at all to move from whatever corner of his apartment he curled himself into. 

What Joe had found, however, was that his outbursts of grief, of misery so deep that it left him blank-eyed and dehydrated, were more often than not followed by bouts of rage that left anything in his wake destroyed. 

He had replaced his television twice before giving up. 

Unfortunately, for both he and Nicky, his brief conversation with Quynh and the subsequent sobbing had breathed life into another one of those instances. 

Joe felt the simmering under his skin as his cries died down, and had mumbled about going to grab something to drink from the kitchen before abandoning Nicky in bed. 

Nicky saw right through the paper thin excuse and had followed behind Joe a few minutes later. 

Joe, spiraling as he is, fights back unreasonable frustration that Nicky hadn’t stayed in the bedroom. 

Nicky sits on the couch, a blanket drawn over his lap, watching Joe stand at the sink with his hands gripping either side of the metal bowl. 

Joe clenches his eyes shut until he sees starbursts, breathing heavily through the urge to start opening cabinets to shatter any glass he can find just so there will be something else broken in the room besides himself. 

“My love,” Nicky calls softly, hesitation clear in his voice. “Talk to me.” 

Joe shakes his head quickly. His fingers are turning white from how tightly they’re gripping the sink. 

“You don’t want me to do that right now, Nicky.” 

The last thing that Joe ever wants to do is hurt Nicky by his lashing out. He just needs time to collect himself, to find some other outlet that doesn’t involve breaking things or screaming. 

“Yes, I do, Joe,” Nicky replies after a few tense minutes have passed. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.” 

“Then explain it to me.” 

“I can’t, goddamnit!” 

Joe’s shout surprises them both, but it’s Nicky’s flinching back into the couch that throws cold water over the fire of Joe’s anger. 

Joe takes a few stumbling steps towards him, his hand already reaching out. 

“Nicky,” his voice is rough, ragged with guilt and the fury he can still feel bubbling beneath the surface. “I–I’m sorry. I would never—.” 

Nicky reaches back for him, and Joe allows himself to be pulled onto the couch next to him. 

Nicky curls into him, pressing his cheek to Joe’s shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, Nicky,” Joe whispers into his hair. “I didn’t mean to shout at you or scare you. I’d never hurt you, I’d cut off my own hands before I did that.”

Nicky turns his head to press his mouth into Joe’s shoulder. 

“I know that, my love.” It sounds like forgiveness that Joe feels utterly unworthy of. “The only thing I’m afraid of is you being alone, and you look like you feel alone. You’re not. I’m here. Just talk to me,” Nicky pleads. 

“I can’t, Nicky,” Joe moans, moving so he can drop his head into his hands. His movement forces Nicky to sit up. 

“There is nothing you could say to me that would make me stop loving you, Yusuf,” Nicky says, and he sounds so certain. 

But Joe doesn’t share that surety. 

“You can’t know that.” 

“Yes. Yes, I can,” Nicky refutes solemnly. “You are a part of me now. For as long as I live, I will always be yours and you will always be mine.” 

If Joe’s entire body wasn’t thrumming with anger and bitterness, he would fall to his knees at Nicky’s feet and swear the same. He’s been Nicky’s from the very first day; he feels like he was born to only ever be Nicky’s. 

Emily Brontë’s age-old words run through his mind like a mantra, background noise to the agitation that is once again pounding at the front of his skull. 

_ Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.  _

“You really think you’ll be able to look at me the same way once you know? Once you truly know what he did to me?” 

Joe doesn’t mean to pose it as a challenge, but either way, Nicky rises to it. He straightens his spine, lifts his chin, his eyes like two blue flames as he stares back at Joe.

“I know I will. You are the man I love, the other half of my heart, and that is the only way I will ever see you.”

Joe fights his outrage for one more prolonged moment, let’s the both of them hover there in time and space, before it boils over inside of him and comes spewing out like poisoned ichor. 

“I should have made him fucking kill me,” Joe bites out, furious at himself and his weakness and the fact that he’s still  _ so glad  _ he didn’t die that night, despite everything. “I should have made him pull the trigger before letting him do that to me.” 

“ _ Yusuf _ …” Nicky’s horror is clear, his eyes wide and so deeply hurt that Joe almost takes it back. 

Almost. 

But Nicky asked for this, didn’t he? Swore that he could handle it. 

“He laughed,” Joe says, anger and mortification warring in him as Nicky’s face blanches further. “When he was finished fucking me, after he came  _ inside of me _ , he laughed, and said that he must have made a mistake in hiring me if that was the best I had.”

His wrath leaves him breathless, sick to his stomach, drowning, as he watches his words wreak havoc on Nicky. 

Nicky who hasn’t fled yet, who’s reached out and is holding one of Joe’s clenched hands steady between both of his. 

Hand-holding is beginning to take on a completely new meaning to him; it’s beginning to feel like a love language that is all their own. 

“You didn’t  _ let _ him do anything to you, and the word is  _ raping _ not  _ fucking _ ,” he finally says, very quiet, as he leans down and brushes his mouth against Joe’s knuckles. 

“What?” Is Joe’s brilliant response, knocked off balance as he is by both Nicky’s words and the touch of his lips on his skin. 

Nicky pulls Joe’s hand closer to his chest, and his eyes study it like Joe himself has done to something he finds beautiful enough to sketch so many times before. 

It’s several silent minutes before Nicky speaks again. 

“As much as I love you, and as much as I want to help you, I am also aware that I am in no way qualified to do so,” Nicky says this like an apology. “That being said, I read a few articles from psychology journals while you were sleeping and many of them said that using proper terminology, and correcting yourself when you don’t, is helpful in shifting the blame where it truly belongs.” 

Nicky looks up now, and with the slow dissipation of his rage, Joe fights the urge to duck his head, to hide in the face of such empathy and understanding. Nicky reaches his free hand out, slow and tentative, and it hovers an inch from Joe’s cheek. 

He closes the gap himself, sighing as the warmth from Nicky’s palm seeps into his flesh, chasing away the dregs of his momentary insanity. 

“You are blaming yourself for what was done to you, my love,” Nicky’s voice is almost a whisper, but it rings with a conviction Joe knows he feels down to his bones. “There was nothing you could do, and I for one, will be forever grateful that you survived because if you hadn’t—,” he breaks off there, choked by the mere thought and Joe leans towards him until their bodies are pressed together. 

Nicky presses a kiss to his cheek, lingers a moment as if savoring the feel of it, before pulling back. 

“You did nothing wrong, my love. He had a gun, and you didn’t. There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”

Joe dips his head in a quick nod, even as his stomach turns with shame and denial at Nicky’s words. 

How does he not blame himself? A military man, a security  _ expert _ and  _ specialist _ brought so low so quickly? Surely, there must have been something, anything, he could have done besides lie there and take it. 

Nicky must see it on his face, because he makes a soft noise, just this side of chiding, and his hand moves to cup Joe’s jaw and tug it upwards until their eyes meet. 

“Whatever your mind is telling you right now isn’t true,” he says. “I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, Joe. It was not your fault. There was nothing you could do.” 

“Nicky, please,” Joe says, and it comes out more like a cry. “I can’t–it doesn’t…”

“I’m right here,” Nicky reassures as he releases Joe’s hand so he can frame his face. “You’re alright, my love. You’re safe.” 

Joe knows he’s crying again, for what feels like the millionth time in the last two years, but all he can focus on is the panic swirling in his chest.

“I should have done something,” he says, voice shaking. 

“You did do something, Joe. You survived. That’s not nothing.” 

Joe knows somewhere deep down that what Nicky is saying is true, but he can’t bring himself to accept it. Not yet.

“I never should have gone to the bar with him in the first place. If I hadn’t been so fucking stupid—,” Joe is cut off by Nicky’s thumb pressing against his mouth, a gentle pressure.

“You are the most intelligent man I have ever met, Joe. Wanting to get drinks with a co-worker isn’t stupid,” Nicky says firmly, but Joe is shaking his head again before he finishes.

“But it wasn’t just that, was it? He was my co-worker but I thought it could be more,” Joe is fighting for air now. “I  _ wanted _ it to be more.”

“You didn’t want it like that, my love,” Nicky whispers, trying to soothe Joe into taking deeper breaths. “Never like that.” 

Joe chokes out a sob at that, and Nicky reels in him until he’s cradled against his chest; a mirror image of the previous night. 

Nicky braces one hand around Joe’s back, and let’s the other come up to tangle in his hair as he cries against Nicky’s collarbone. 

“You couldn’t have known what he was, my heart,” Nicky speaks into his ear while he grieves, a flashlight in the darkness. “You are not to blame for another’s cruelty or crimes against you, and I won’t have you spend one more minute believing otherwise.”

Sometime later, when Nicky’s words have turned into humming, Joe realizes he has matched his breathing with the rise and fall of Nicky’s chest, and that his lungs have stopped burning from lack of oxygen. 

“I love you, Nicky,” Joe murmurs, pressing his mouth to the skin exposed by the V of Nicky’s t-shirt. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

His voice trails off, but he keeps mouthing the words over and over and over again. He could spend every second of forever saying it and it wouldn’t be enough; it’ll never be enough. 

“I love you, tesoro,” Nicky returns, and Joe can hear the joy in his voice. “Now and always.”

Joe is pulling back from his place under Nicky’s chin, leaning in for a kiss, when his stomach growls loud enough to shatter the silence. 

Both men look at each other, then down at Joe’s abdomen, and then back at one another before bursting into peals of laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.

Joe shifts until he’s straddling Nicky’s lap, and the other man’s hands come up to rest on his hips as he stares up at Joe. 

“I guess I should probably eat something today.” 

“That would be wise.”

“Is there anything here to eat, though?”

“I made you muffins,” Nicky exclaims, pulling Joe a few inches closer, smiling with all of his teeth. 

“Really? What kind?”

“Blueberry, what else?” 

“Those are my favorite!”

“Yes, my love, I know. Very astute of you,” Nicky teases, clearly pleased with himself. 

Joe swoops down and kisses the satisfied grin from his love’s face, bringing his hands up to brace them on Nicky’s shoulders. 

Nicky’s mouth opens up under his instantly, his fingers flexing from their place on Joe’s hips, still so careful not to hold on too tightly. He lets out a little groan when Joe’s tongue slides against his own, and the sound goes straight to Joe’s groin. 

The sensation sends a frisson of fear skittering down Joe’s back, but he pushes it away, and presses his body more firmly against Nicky’s. 

He may not be ready to take things any further tonight, and he isn’t sure when or if he will be, but he can keep kissing the man he loves.

Just for a little while longer. 

And then he’s going to go and eat some muffins, because  _ damn _ is he hungry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we get to see Joe share his secret with someone other than Nicky. Any guesses on who it might be?   
> There will also be art classes and chocolate because why not? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
